


Mirror, Mirror

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Lewis Summer Challenge 2016, M/M, Multi, Mustaches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7992490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Sir,” Hathaway’s voice seemed faint, “as much as I’d like to be an inspector, I have no desire to climb over your dead body to do so.” Hathaway’s hand grasped his shoulder, sliding up to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, his thumb brushing against Robbie’s collarbone. His voice was soft, gentle: “Are you all right?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> In February 2016, Laurence Fox grew a mustache and dyed his hair for a play. Photos were posted on Facebook and Twitter as it was a decidedly creepy look for him. 
> 
> Based on the Star Trek-The Original Series Episode "Mirror, Mirror" (the alternate universe where Spock has a mustache and a beard). Many thanks to both Perclexed and Somnaire who dared me to write this in the first place and who read an early version. 
> 
> Posted for Lewis Summer Challenge 2016 and to commemorate fifty years of Star Trek.

“Sir, if you electrocute yourself, there will be paperwork.” Hathaway crouched easily beside him in the narrow space behind his desk in their office, first eyeing the electrical box and then meeting Robbie’s gaze. “Maintenance is on the way.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I can handle taking out a screw to get the plate off for them. Don’t want it to take all day.” Robbie was on his knees in front of the dead electrical outlet behind his desk. Couldn’t figure out why Hathaway was worrying, the bloody thing wasn’t working, was it? They had a deadline and didn’t have time to be waiting around for some bloke with a toolbox and an over-inflated sense of purpose. It was an outlet and he was a dab hand with wiring. He frowned; Hathaway, of all people, should understand: if you want it done right, do it yourself. He huffed a sigh, held up the screwdriver, and as he moved to the electrical socket, his hand slipped—

\--and he was thrown back against his desk, smacking his temple. Dazed, Robbie shook his head from side to side as blackness crept in from the sides of his field of vision. The wall in front of him seemed to ripple. His sight seemed blurred and his eyeballs felt as if they were vibrating out of their sockets. His fingertips felt numb. His ears were ringing. He closed his eyes to keep from vomiting.

“Sir,” Hathaway’s voice seemed faint, “as much as I’d like to be an inspector, I have no desire to climb over your dead body to do so.” Hathaway’s hand grasped his shoulder, sliding up to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, his thumb brushing against Robbie’s collarbone. His voice was soft, gentle: “Are you all right?”

Robbie opened his eyes, stared at his hands, blinked. The screwdriver lay on the floor in front of the outlet. And Hathaway’s hand was warm, almost intimate, against his flesh and shirt collar. He turned to look at the other man—

\--who wore a pencil thin mustache. A brown mustache. A brown mustache that matched his hair color.

The eyes, though, were the same. Blue-green in this light and warm, very warm. And very close. Inches away.

Hathaway brushed his thumb back and forth against the starched collar of Robbie’s shirt, smiling fondly, and his voice was low, soft, and silky: “You seem terrified, darling.” His smile hardened, sarky now, and wrong because it was more sexual than friendly. “I like it. It reminds me of old times.”

_What. The. Bloody. Hell._

Hathaway rose easily, and held out a hand. “Upsy-daisy. Wouldn’t want Innocent to catch us _eflagrante delicto_ again. I know you like the lash of her whip now and again”—he squeezed Robbie’s hand before releasing it—“but I prefer being able to sit while I work.” He tilted his head, a frown line appearing beneath his too-dark hair. “Perhaps Dr. Hobson should check you out. I think you were out for a bit there.”

Robbie put a hand to his forehead. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” He steadied himself on the edge of his desk, covertly sweeping his eyes over their shared office. Val still smiled at him from the photo of the two of them on the bookshelf and his pot plants still needed water. His in-box was full, which was unusual for him, and his rubbish bin was full, which was unusual for the nick.

Hathaway was watching him: grey suit, pink shirt, yellow tie. He usually looked as threatening as the Easter Bunny in those clothes, but the mustache and hair gave him a sinister air.

“I’ll drive you,” said the vaguely dangerous Easter-Bunny-man with the brown hair.

Robbie nodded, mute, and continued staring at the bottle brown hair on Hathaway’s upper lip and on his head. What had happened to his pale blond hair? He didn’t even smell like Hathaway—this man reeked of tobacco and a musky sort of cologne that made Robbie’s nose wrinkle. Certainly wasn’t behaving like his sergeant, either.

Had to be a dream. He was asleep. _That’s it._

Robbie dropped heavily into his desk chair and looked at the mess on his desk. He wasn’t obsessive about keeping his desk clean, but he wasn’t a slob either. Whoever had been using his desk was a pig.

“Who’s been using my desk?”

Hathaway’s eyes widened. He leaned against his desk and folded his arms regarding Robbie closely.

A detective constable rapped smartly on the doorjamb of their office, interrupting them. He stood at attention, his hands behind his back. “Maintenance has been delayed, Sir.”

“Gurdip?” Although Robbie hadn’t seen him in a week or two, why would he have gone into uniform? How did he get that ugly scar on his cheek?

“Your error?” Hathaway’s manner was cold.

“No. Sir.” Gurdip’s demeanor bordered on insolent, pausing as he did between the two words as if he didn’t believe Hathaway warranted the honorific. “I put in the request.” His eyes narrowed. “Though I would not have let the situation degrade to this extent, however, so that an inspector would be forced to take action himself.”

“I do take care of him. And if there is some question as to my competence, may I remind you that he chose me as his sergeant.” Hathaway rose and loomed over the shorter man. “See that my car is brought round.”

“Will you require an escort?” Pause. “Sir.”

“We’ll manage. It’s a short drive to the Radcliffe.” Hathaway seemed to be awaiting some acknowledgment.

Gurdip nodded curtly, clicked his heels together, and walked briskly out of sight.

_Right. Right. Well._ Robbie bent his head, rubbing the back of his neck. Must be dreaming, must be having a bloody fucking nightmare, that’s all there is to it. Ate a bad bit of fish or—could be that pierce and ping from last night was bad, no telling how long it had been sitting in his freezer.

Hathaway had put on his coat and was holding Robbie’s coat open for him as if he were a child. “Let’s go before Gurdip rallies his minions to prevent us from getting there.”

What? Must be his hearing was going now, too.

Even the nick seemed different. Guns and tasers hung from the belts of the uniformed officers. There was an armed guard and a metal detector at the entrance; a fingerprint scan was needed to leave the building. Hathaway paused, holding open the door.

“You have a mustache,” Robbie said, stalling for time, trying to take it all in.

“I do, though I’ve never liked it much,” Hathaway said conversationally. “As a badge of recognition, it itches and requires too much maintenance.”

Robbie turned to look out the car window and made a non-committal noise. Mustache as rank, then? Had to be. What did the women do, then? Or—wait. He hadn’t seen any women in uniform in the nick. None.

Well, that was a pisser.

“I have a headache,” he said, because he did, and it seemed to be getting worse the more he tried to concentrate. His mouth was dry and his palms were sticky with perspiration.

“Dr. Hobson will get you sorted.” He glanced over to Robbie. “I can pull over if you’re going to be sick.” He checked the mirrors. “I don’t see Gurdip’s lads yet.”

“I’m fine. Just confused, that’s all. Banged my head.” Gurdip’s lads? What was this, then?

“You were confused before you banged your head, sir. Trying to remove head quarter’s standard wiretap without a technician. You know that GCHQ frowns on our disabling our own surveillance devices.”

“I do?”

Hathaway frowned at the road. “We’ll be there in a few minutes.” He made a sharp turn, swearing under his breath.

Robbie leaned his head against the car window and closed his eyes. Oxford looked familiar, but not. The buildings were dirty, the pedestrians seemed hard, and—“Where are the bicycles?”

There was a long pause. “They’ve been outlawed for several years, Robert.” Another pause. “Are you having trouble remembering?”

_I don’t remember you ever calling me Robert, not once, that’s for sure._ “I might be, yeah, if I’ve forgot the bicycles.”

Hathaway clenched the steering wheel a little tighter, his knuckles white. He glanced behind them and made another hard turn, barreling down a narrow road Robbie didn’t recognize. “Perhaps we shouldn’t go to the Radcliffe. It’s NHS, and you’re entitled to go to the Blair.”

_The what?_ “Radcliffe is fine, man.” He closed his eyes.

“Good. Dr. Hobson might be upset if she heard you were injured and didn’t drop by to be scolded.”

“She got a whip, too?” Robbie said, trying to get back to the familiar give and take of banter. He opened one eye, just a crack, to see how his attempt at humor went over.

Hathaway’s mouth tightened. “I thought that was over.”

_What? What’s—over? It never started! Bloody hell._ “It is.” _What is? Good God, what’s going on?_ “I just—forgot, that’s all.”

Hathaway smoothly pulled to the side of the road, stopping the car and letting the engine idle. He consulted the mirrors again, and moved his suit jacket back exposing a shoulder holster and the gleam of a firearm. He turned to Robbie, his blue-ish eyes concerned beneath the brown fringe of hair, his mouth a moue beneath the carefully groomed mustache. “You don’t seem to be yourself, though if I take you to A &E, they’ll have to file a report, and you’re already under caution.”

“For what?” Robbie’s mouth was dry as dust. Hathaway had a weapon.

“For attacking Monkford, though everyone agreed that it was completely warranted, but the man was hospitalized and—“

“I didn’t. I may have wanted to, but I didn’t. Never touched him.”

Hathaway nodded, looking out the window. He reached into his pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes and lit up, cracking the window as he did so.

“Thought you didn’t smoke in the car.”

“I’ve always smoked in the car. You did, too, until the doctors told you to quit after you were shot.”

Robbie’s eyes widened. Smoked in Tyneside as a lad, but not since school, and even then, couldn’t smoke often because cigarettes were so dear. Expensive habit.

And he was shot? Where? When?

Hathaway shook out a cigarette, proffered the pack.

“Thanks just the same.” Robbie tried not to ogle the gun, the mustache, and the man beside him. “I’ll be happy to see Laura.”

“Not too happy, I hope.” Hathaway flicked the butt into the street—no change there—and pulled back into traffic. “Leave her be, Robert. It was never going to work between the three of us and wishing won’t make it so.”

Robbie’s heart stilled. The three of us? Right, that wouldn’t work, especially since he wasn’t—

Hathaway’s hand dropped to Robbie’s thigh, remaining there. “When we get home, I’m going to make you remember.” His voice was a low, soft rumble. “All your favorite—things.”

_No, no, no._ He must have looked as confused as he felt, because Hathaway’s mouth became a thin, pained line. But Robbie had to know, had to. “I’m sorry.” He cast about for something appropriate to say. “You and I, then?”

“A year now.” There was pain in Hathaway’s voice, too, as if their—love affair? dalliance? sexual escapade?—meant something to him. Love affair, then. “Just us for the last six months,” Hathaway said, his mouth taking a downward turn. “You don’t remember? Honestly? Dr. Hobson was a brief affair. We were too busy for each other during the Chloe Brooks case, and when she died, Dr. Hobson was there for you.”

No, Chloe Brooks lived. She recovered. She—“Laura was there for me?”

“It was my fault. I don’t blame you, not at all. Nor do I blame Dr. Hobson—“

“Dr. Hobson? Why don’t you call her Laura?”

“It’s too painful.” Hathaway sighed, casting a sidelong glance at him. “Perhaps we can have her arrange for an MRI. She could arrange the test, view the results, and easily lose the hospital record in that snakepit. No one would ever know.”

“She would. She’d never go for it.”

Hathaway rolled his eyes and snorted.

_Deep breaths, Robbie._ At least Hathaway wasn’t driving like a bat out of hell any longer. Realization dawned. “We were being followed. You lost him—Gurdip?”

“Of course. The only way he can reclaim his rank is to eliminate someone above him. He knows you and I are together, so it’s unlikely I would try to murder you in order to make inspector. I am known to be a man of some small loyalties.” He shrugged a diffident shoulder. “I’m worried. Don’t you remember?”

Robbie swallowed and looked stubbornly out the window. So many people walking the streets, trudging along, just as huddled and cold as the surrounding buildings. But the stone buildings in Oxford were golden, not these grey, bleak facades. “No,” he whispered, staring at his reflection in the window. He looked the same: as tired and as grey as the buildings they passed. “I don’t recall a bloody thing.”

“I call her Dr. Hobson because she left us.” Hathaway let his breath out in a whoosh, as if he’d been holding it. “You and I were lovers; we started being too busy for one another. She saw an opportunity, she took it. The three of us enjoyed a brief, intense relationship, and she moved on. Do you—well,” he smiled slightly, tilting his head in that self-deprecating way he had, a moment where he suddenly looked like his own James Hathaway and not this brown-haired man. “You and I have been trying to rebuild.” He cast a sideways glance at Robbie. “What do you remember?”

“That outlet had gone dead and I went to take the plate off.”

“You were taking the plate off to disable the surveillance device.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know.” Hathaway bit his upper lip. “I thought you might have plans for Innocent, but you’ve never expressed an interest in her job. Has that changed?”

He’d never considered Innocent’s job. Wouldn’t want it if it meant that she had to come to harm so that he could move up.

Especially didn’t want to harm her so that he could move up. He felt his jaw go slack and shut it with a snap. Because it was apparent now: to advance in rank, the person above you had to die.

Bloody hell, he wouldn’t have wanted her job even in his own well-ordered world.

“I see you are beginning to remember,” Hathaway said, dryly. “Though it does make me wonder if Gurdip knew you were planning to make a move since he continues to monitor all of the computer systems.”

Robbie’s eyes widened.

“If he delayed the maintenance personnel so that you would be eliminated, I’d move up, as would he. Robert, if you had succeeded, and then eliminated Innocent, you’d move up, as would I, and he’d also move up. He didn’t want the problem that you created to be fixed.”

Robbie wondered if this Hathaway had planned it all since he stood to benefit. His Hathaway would never do that, but this mustached man might. He had a hard look about him.

“What do I do about it?” His voice was a strained whisper. He had to know what was expected of him, even if it was only in this nightmare. Had to know, too, if Hathaway was in on it.

“Report him. It’s Gurdip’s third offense. He’s already been scarred on one cheek by the division. He won’t risk being scarred on the other. At this point, it’s best to let him go. He’s both clever and ambitious. While you’re not known for being a merciful man, I’ve found you to be so, and it is advantageous having a living criminal who owes you a favor. And it is also advantageous to be known as one who uses their adversaries wisely.” Hathaway executed a sharp turn. “But if he’s scarred on both sides it limits his usefulness.”

_Machiavellian, if you ask me._ It was hard to get neutral words out. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The Radcliffe car park was jammed, the entrance was guarded, and the waiting area had no chairs; people leaned against the walls or sat on the floor, some apparently had been there for hours, their self-wrapped wounds dripping onto the floor. Rubbish bins and soft drink cups were being used for people who were vomiting. A man sitting against the wall looked dead.

Hurrying past these horrors, Hathaway steered Robbie by the elbow and guided him downstairs.

“Her office is in the same place,” Robbie observed, though his sergeant didn’t comment. He was looking forward to getting some answers; if nothing else, maybe Laura would have some concoction that would wake him up.

They pushed open the double doors to the morgue and the greasy, fetid smell of rotting flesh was like a punch to the gut.

“Bloody hell! Might have warned me!”

Hathaway gave him that head tilt again. “Usually you liken it to the smell of napalm in the morning, sir. ‘Breathe deep, lad, and take advantage: you are still among the living.’”

“I say that?”

His sergeant looked puzzled. “You relish saying it. Sir.”

_Christ._ He rubbed his forehead. “I’m never saying it again.”

Laura came through and smiled at him. She hadn’t changed a bit. Her hair was still short, softly curling, and blond, her eyes were still a twinkling blue, and her smile was warm, friendly, and uncomplicated. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Robbie grinned in relief. “I think I shocked myself.”

“Recognizing when you’ve gone too far is the hallmark of maturity, Robbie. Oh,” she said, looking from one man to the other. “Not that sort of shock?”

“Electrical.” Hathaway said coolly. “Screwdriver came in contact with the wall socket.”

“Any symptoms? Smoke from the ears? Electrocuting others? Faint smell of bacon frying?”

He smiled. Christ, he needed this. She hadn’t changed. And if Laura hadn’t changed, then everything would be all right.

“I’ll wait outside,” Hathaway said coolly.

“Guard the door,” Laura said.

“Of course.”

“Guard the door,” Robbie said, chuckling. “Give over.”

Hathaway shot them a look and let himself out.

Laura glanced at the door, sidled up to Robbie, and slid her arms around his neck. “It’s not funny, Robbie. You know he’d do anything for you, but not if he finds out we’re seeing each other again.”

Robbie tentatively rested his hands on her waist. Touching her felt unfamiliar, new. He and Laura? Just a minute, now. He still hadn’t come to grips with the idea that the three of them had been together, let alone that Laura had been with him and then had left them. Hell, he hadn’t come to terms with his relationship with Hathaway! He gazed down at her expectant face. Now to discover that she hadn’t left after all. _Wait._ He and Hathaway were together. And she and Robbie were seeing each other and Hathaway didn’t know?

_Christ._

He and Laura were having an affair?

But he was with Hathaway! And that was its own head-scratcher, too, because he couldn’t imagine being with a man. Though if he had to imagine being with a man, it would be Hathaway. Laura seemed to be watching him carefully. “What would Hathaway do if he found out, do you think?”

“Make my life bloody difficult, for a start. And yours. He was very happy to see the back of me, and I know you don’t want him to know you sought me out.”

“I sought you—“

“Oh, Robbie, don’t look so innocent! I don’t mind playing around when Franco’s out of town, you know that.” She straightened the collar of his shirt. “We’ve always had fun together in and out of the bedroom, but I don’t want to hurt James by not including him. Wouldn’t be a problem if the two of you weren’t so damned possessive of one another. Makes a girl feel left out.”

“Possessive?”

She leaned back in his arms, evaluating him, a tiny furrow between her eyes. “Something’s off.”

Hadn’t she taken an oath or something, as a doctor? Hippocratic oath? Not to share his medical information with anyone? _Well._ “I’m not remembering things. Most things. Important things.” He tugged her arms down, holding her hands, looking at them and wondering what kind of man he was here in this place that would betray his friends with each other. “Amnesia, I think. Laura, I don’t remember you and I together. Or him. Or us.” He let his gaze drift over the slightly soiled walls. “Or any of this.”

“Are you serious? Honestly? Don’t let that get around, Robbie.” She crossed her arms, staring at him. “A neurological workup. Hmm. Don’t tell a living soul. I won’t be scooping your cerebellum from the brain-pan and weighing it, right?”

“Hope not.”

+++

The paper on the exam table stuck to the back of Robbie’s legs as he slid off to put his trousers back on. He was slick with sweat, nervous and jittery. Laura stripped off her gloves and binned them. Three vials of his blood rattled around in a plastic tray. She gave him a wan smile and turned on her heel to call Hathaway in.

“You never, not once, looked in to see how he was doing. Good on you.”

“I trust you, Doctor.” Hathaway glanced into the plastic tray, moving a vial with his thumb to read the label. He held it up so that Robbie could read it: John Doe X-1138. “I would hope that you would extend me the same courtesy.” The vial clinked as Hathaway put it back into the tray and then clasped his hands behind his back.

“I’ll have his blood-work back in twenty-four hours, James. There are no signs of outright trauma or any indication of neurological deficit other than a persistent ringing in his ears and the complaint of memory loss. Without an MRI or CT scan, it’s impossible to tell if there’s additional damage, but I was able to get an old fashioned x-ray, for all the good that will do.” She laid a hand on Hathaway’s arm. “Take him home. Wake him every hour. Check his pupils—you know what to look for.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“It’s ‘Laura,’ James.”

“Laura.” Hathaway smiled slightly, and gave a small nod. “How’s Franco?”

Her answering smile was crooked. “He’ll be back from Berlin next week. And yes, James, I miss him.”

“Good to know.” The smile beneath the horrible mustache widened. “I’m sure he misses you, too.”

“Maybe we should have Laura and Franco over,” Robbie said. Two pairs of blue eyes went wide at that suggestion. “I mean, for dinner, all right? Nothing more than dinner, that’s all. Just to be clear.”

Hathaway huffed a laugh, his cheeks tinged pink. “Very civilized.”

“It is. And I know Franco would love to meet the two of you and see what a happy couple you make,” Laura said carefully. “It’s a lovely, thoughtful idea, Robbie.” Her voice was gentle.

“Laura. A word?”

“Hathaway,” Robbie reached for his arm and held on. “Anything you say to her, you say to me, too. I—I’ve been telling her that I don’t remember a bloody thing.” He took a deep breath, but he hadn’t told her this bit, hadn’t told him, for that matter, and it was difficult to do so. “My Sergeant Hathaway—the one I remember—has blond hair, no mustache, and he doesn’t carry a weapon.” He didn’t say that his blond hair smelled like a spring day and that he would never consider smoking in a car and that he might be aloof, but he would never have been so cold to Gurdip. He had no idea if his James Hathaway liked men or women or Laura or whips or if he liked anything other than his books and his music and going over cases over a pint at the end of the day, but he’d give anything to see that clean-shaven, golden-haired man right now.

“This is different from the Oxford I know.” His gaze took in the greyish light filtering through the high unwashed windows, the vague greasy feel of the floor beneath his feet, and the nose-wrinkling, lip-curling scent of rot overlaid with formaldehyde. “This isn’t right. My Oxford isn’t like this. I don’t know where I am.”

“A more pertinent question might be: do you know who you are?” Hathaway took the hand from his arm and squeezed it. He nodded to Laura. “I’ll wake him every hour. Anything else?”

“Keep him out of sight. Obviously. You might get yourself killed if someone decided to act while he was incapacitated and you were caring for him.”

“My operatives would avenge my death,” Hathaway said, dryly.

“Lovely sentiment. I don’t want to see either of you on my slab, understood?” She heaved a sigh. “Do you—either of you—think that there’s more to this than a simple crack on the skull?”

_Yes, yes, yes! It’s a bloody nightmare, is what it is!_ “Can’t see how,” he allowed, glancing at Hathaway, who stared back at him, an expressionless mask overlaid by that hideous mustache. “Is that even real?” Robbie asked, almost touching his fingertip to the top of Hathaway’s upper lip.

The sergeant sniffed as he drew back and looked pointedly at Laura. “It bothers him.”

“It bothers me and I’m not the one kissing you goodnight anymore.”

“Did he have it when we were—“ Robbie began, and then realized he didn’t want to know, not really.

“He did.” Laura licked her lips and stared at the surgical booties covering her shoes with a slight smile on her face. “It hadn’t filled in yet and, erm, it itched. He had interesting ways of dealing with the, ah, problem.”

Robbie watched the color bloom in Hathaway’s face, cheeks to neck going from pink to red like a sunset. On his James it would have been endearing and sweet, on this bloke it looked hot and sweaty, like the precursor to a sex act.

“He hates it.” Hathaway sounded fond, though resigned. He smoothed it with his thumb and forefinger. “Or so he says. Liked it well enough last night.”

Laura made a face.

“Oi!” Robbie didn’t remember whatever they’d been up to last night—though he truly wanted to remember whatever it was—but there was no need to share their business with Laura, not now. And not ever, to his mind. He still couldn’t see it. The three of them? How would that work, exactly? How—he paused, realizing that they were both staring at him. “We should leave.”

“Yes. Right away.” Laura crossed her arms, cocking her head and giving him a speculative look. “You don’t remember, do you, Robbie? Not a single thing.”

“Wish I did.”

She dropped her arms. “I’m glad you don’t.”

Hathaway huffed a laugh. “I am, too, for all that.” He pressed a hand to Robbie’s shoulder. “I like this mild-mannered Robert Lewis. _Tabla rasa._ ”

And that’s when it hit him: Robbie hadn’t heard one quote, not a single Latin word or phrase, not a bloody one. “You went to Cambridge,” he accused Hathaway as they hurried through the triage area of the hospital to reach their car outside.

Hathaway got into the car and lit a cigarette. He nodded, curt, the smoke curling between his hands as he puffed and drove. “Not often that you hold it against me.”

“But you were going to be a priest.”

Hathaway sighed, stopping and signaling a turn. “Yeah, but being a priest would have been even worse than being a copper. The blood rituals and flagellation, the excoriation and—look, do you really not remember? I’ve explained the scars, the—“

“Oh, Christ, man, you have scars? Emotional or—“ he needed to know, wanted to understand, especially if this was to be his world now, and if this was to be his Hathaway – “physical?”

Hathaway’s mouth turned down at the corner. “Pint?” He stubbed the cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray of the car. Did they even make car ashtrays any longer, Robbie wondered. Only saw them in vintage cars. But this was a newer car—had an electronic screen that looked a little like one of those old Pac Man games with the lanes and the ghosts.

Now there’s a thought. Maybe he was dead and this was hell. Made sense. Hathaway even looked vaguely Satanic. “Could go for a pint, yeah. Thanks, man.”

Hathaway reached out and took Robbie’s hand, bringing it to his lips. The damn mustache tickled Robbie’s skin, making him shiver.

He could get used to being touched. In fact, he was enjoying the open displays of affection: the warm hand at the small of his back, the press of Hathaway’s palm against his shoulder, the way Hathaway had bent low to his ear to share information about this strange new world.

If it wasn’t for that bloody thing on the man’s lip, he might be able to get used to it.

Eventually.

+++

“We usually go to my flat, but perhaps your place will bring back memories—“ Hathaway opened the door and stepped back. “Oh, my God.”

“I don’t remember that smell. Bloody hell, what is that?” He spun about, his heart pounding in guilt and shame, sudden tears pricking his eyes, “Christ, do I—I remember a cat—“ he looked at Hathaway, who shook his head.

“You’ve never had a cat. That’s food gone bad, Robert.” Hathaway gave him a slight smile, patient and worried and fond—and if he’d been the real James, his James, Robbie would’ve fallen into his arms and cried. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t, and instead he breathed through his mouth and went into the kitchen.

The rubbish bin was overflowing and rancid with moldy Indian takeaway containers. Empty bottles, dirty glasses—the counter was a mess. He rolled up his sleeves and began filling the sink with water.

“Robert. You’re—cleaning?”

“Aye, I’d rather not, but it has to be done.”

“You didn’t ask me,” said Hathaway quietly.

“Didn’t think I needed your permission to clean me own kitchen.”

Hathaway reached past Robbie and shut off the water. He stared into Robbie’s eyes, placed his palms against Robbie’s cheeks, and leaned in very slowly, examining him intently. “This isn’t like you. And you haven’t tried to grab me today, not once.”

Robbie’s eyes widened. What kind of wanker was he in this world? He must have looked shocked, because Hathaway held him in his caged hands and continued, “Robert, you haven’t forced me to do anything. And you are a man who is used to having his way. In all manner of things.”

His head was reeling. Between the stench of the rubbish and the creepy ‘stach—“So, sergeant, I like giving orders?”

Hathaway canted his hips, pressing hot and hard against Robbie, and rumbled in a low, sexy voice, “Yeah, and I like following them. Sir.”

“Sergeant,” he said, taking a step back, “I need a moment.”

Hathaway dropped his hands and straightened, his face becoming hard. “Of course. Sir.”

“Stand over there where I don’t have to look at that insect on your mouth while I do the washing up. And tell me what case we’re working on, because I can’t bloody remember.”

“That is—was—unexpected.”

Robbie shook his head and put the dishes in to soak before turning to the rubbish. He sealed the bag. “Is the skip behind the building?”

“I’ll take it. I always do.”

“You’ll not. It’s my rubbish. Just don’t go anywhere.” Robbie let himself out. The stars were still faint in the night sky. The skip outside the building was overflowing. As he quietly re-entered his flat, he heard Hathaway’s voice, presumably speaking on his mobile.

“When will you have DNA results, Doctor—I mean, Laura—I mean, fuck, that man is not Robert. No, I haven’t had an opportunity to examine him privately because he is doing the washing up. Well, apparently he does know how to do that because he is very competently applying water and Fairy Liquid to the crockery in his sink. No, I don’t know where he learned how—have to ring off.” Hathaway huffed a laugh as he turned. “I should remind you that I’m armed, sir.”

“I know. I was trusting you not to shoot me. Thanks for opening a window, man. Place could use a good airing.” Robbie took up his spot at the sink. “DNA?”

“It seemed prudent. I take it your James Hathaway and I differ somewhat.”

The words sounded stilted, coming as they were from behind his back. “Bit. As I said, you look the same except he has blond hair and doesn’t have a moustache. I call him ‘my awkward sod’ but he’s a good man, decent and kind. Like I think you want to be.”

“Are you two married?”

Robbie nearly dropped the mug he was holding. “No, no. We’re not. We—see, it’s…” his voice trailed off.

“Oh, you’re married and he’s your bit on the side?”

“God, no. There’s—look, we’re not like that.” He turned to see Hathaway leaning against the wall, his arms folded, smirking beneath his facial hair, looking like a creepy Frenchman. De Gaulle, or one of those mimes in a striped shirt. Hitler, even. Maybe a cross between De Gaulle and Hitler. And a mime. He turned back to the sink with a sigh.

“You sound homophobic.”

“I’m not—I don’t bloody care. Not one for labels, him or me, but we haven’t got around to it. Not yet, anyway. We’re friends, best mates. I suppose I’m the one holding back because I think he deserves better. One of his friends once said, ‘Love is never wrong.’ “

“Will said that before he shot himself.” Hathaway’s voice was barely audible.

“In my world too. I’m sorry, Ja—Hathaway.”

“James. You haven’t said it, and I’d like you to. Please.”

“James. And it’s Robbie, not Robert.” He wiped the counter down and leaned on it heavily, his back to the other man. “I’m afraid to look in the fridge to see if there’s any milk.”

“There isn’t. Were you thinking of tea?”

Robbie nodded, hanging his head. “Seemed wise to keep a clear head. I do want to hear about whatever case we’re on.”

“Then you’ll need a drink. It’s a missing child.”

“Zelinsky,” Robbie whispered.

“You—do you remember?”

“From my world, yeah.”

“Then your world is just as evil as this one.”

“Christ, I hope not.” He opened the cupboard where he usually kept cereal, a few tins and a bottle of whisky. But it was all liquor, all opened, and all very disheartening. “I don’t like the man I am in this world,” he said, taking down a bottle.

“I don’t like him much either. I do love him, though.” James’s hands were on his shoulders, massaging gently. “I wonder if your James feels the same.”

“I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.” And then it hit like a blow to his gut. “Your Robert is with my James.”

“I imagine so.”

Robbie spun to face him, grabbing him by the arms. “I have to get back! My James— _my James_ —he won’t know! Your Robert is a—a—bloody fucking monster. He might make him to do things, horrible things. And even though he’s my James, my canny lad, he won’t be able to say ‘No’ if he thinks I’m asking him.” He dropped his grasp of the doppelganger, “and—aw, Christ, man, I have to get back.”

“You don’t think he’s capable of saying ‘No’ to these things?”

“’Course. But we look out for each other and if I ask him to do something…” He didn’t want to admit that his James would do it, no question. Hathaway’s words made objective sense, but Robbie didn’t believe that his James would be as detached and clinical. His James would trust the man he thought was his boss.

“I know—aw, Christ, I know he cares, all right?” As he said it, he felt like admitting this small truth was worse than whatever action the other Robert took. Because Robbie did know, how could he not know, that his James cared for him in a way that he was just not prepared to deal with? Not yet, anyway. He fumbled for the thread of what he’d been pulling together, feeling clumsy, but knowing that he had to make this fake Hathaway understand. “The Chloe Brooks case? Just because I thought something wasn’t right, he stayed up all night assembling all the photos from the gaudy into a timeline—“

“As I did here. You said, that is, my Robert said it was a complete waste of time.” Hathaway said stiffly.

“It wasn’t, of course it wasn’t. And in my world, she lived.”

“Are you positing an identical universe?” James cocked his head, his eyes drifting up and to the right, lost in thought. “Two worlds? It’s science fiction, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t, and neither do you because you—well, my James—made me read Hawking’s bloody book and then we wrestled with it over a couple of pints because it made a certain sense even if we didn’t understand all the math—“

And Hathaway was almost smiling at him, that happy gentle smile his James so seldom wore and that looked so wrong on this almost-familiar face. “I’ve read it. You say you need to get back. But I don’t want you to go.” He put his hands in his pockets, exposing the edge of the holster for his gun, and looked at the floor. “I’ll go and change the bedsheets.”

“Let me do that. James. I can change my own sheets.”

James stood in the doorway, his back to Robbie, and said, softly, “Since we usually share a bed, we used to share that chore.”

His heart stopped. “Um. I reckon that you’ve done it more often than not.”

Hathaway didn’t turn. “I don’t mind. Do you? Mind sharing a bed with me, I mean.”

_Of course I mind! The face may be familiar, but I don’t know who you are. I’d mind if you were my Hathaway!_ He cleared his throat, preparing to say just that, and saw the way Hathaway’s shoulders slumped slightly, as if he’d flinched. “No, I suppose it makes as much sense as anything else. Long as all we do is sleep.”

Hathaway nodded, seemed to pause as if he wanted to turn and say something, but he left the kitchen.

Robbie stood staring at the empty doorway, hearing rustling noises from the bedroom.

It wouldn’t be too bad, would it? At least he and this James were getting along well enough to talk with each other. He wondered if he might be this tosser who slept around and ordered people about—how would he know if he’d lost his memory? Maybe he craved the vision of an angelic, blond James Hathaway because he himself was depraved and evil. The devil seeking redemption.

So if this was his world, and if he was Robert Lewis, Consummate Arse, then sharing a bed would be a simple sacrifice to make if it kept the two of them alive while they were still sorting this out. He hoped that it was at least going as well for his James and the other Robert. If that was happening. He felt a twinge from holding his breath—a bad habit, holding in the tension from the job, but one that arose whenever he was stressed or worried. He could see where living in this off-kilter world would unnerve even the most stable individual. For this James to cringe like that—well.

He took a few minutes to sort the fridge—most of the food consisted of wilted vegetables and moldy fruit—all good intentions gone bad. He wondered where they spent all their time. Hathaway’s flat, most likely, given the state of this place. He took out one of the better bottles of whisky, poured out two fingers into clean glasses, and made his way down the hall. James was running water in the loo—taking a shower? He wasn’t sure.

This bedroom looked the same as his own. Same duvet cover, same little rip where a button had been tugged off in the dryer. Val’s photo, the one of Lyn and Mark when they were kids—all there. He set the glasses on the bedside table. The room smelled a little musty, even with the fresh sheets, and there was a thin layer of dust everywhere, only his laundry hamper was missing. When he found it, packed with laundry bags in the wardrobe, something told him that his sergeant had done more than change the linens. He grabbed an old t-shirt from one of the bags to use as a rag and set about wiping off the furniture until he felt the room was more habitable. It took his mind off the state of his bladder, for one thing, and calmed his nerves, for another. He reckoned the shirt had seen better days, too.

“James? I’m off to dump more rubbish.” He wanted to add something about getting a move on until he heard a muffled apology as an acknowledgment.

When he got back, the bathroom was empty, the mirror was wiped, and everything gleamed. “You didn’t have to clean in here,” he called out, seeing that the door to the bedroom was closed and wondering what had required the use of a cleanser with bleach in the bathroom. He decided to take a shower too, since that seemed only polite given they’d be sharing sleeping space, and he was delighted to find that his bathrobe was hanging behind the door.

And that James had left out fresh pajamas for him.

Somehow he didn’t think that Robert was the sort of bloke who even wore pajamas, and the genteel propriety made him smile a bit. Quick shower, quick shave—again, only to be polite. He made a mental note, adding razor blades to his list for the shops in the morning before he flicked off the light and went into the bedroom. It was all normal, prosaic. Boring. Except…

James was in his bed.

Not his James, but a nearer version.

James Hathaway had shaved that awful mustache.

He still had brown hair, but the thing on his lip was gone, leaving a slight pink trail. He didn’t glance at Robbie, though when he smiled it was like his James was in the room, in his bed.

In his bed.

James.

He closed his eyes, counted to ten, opened them, and stared.

“It seemed to bother you,” James said, not looking up from the book he was reading. His cheeks were tinged pink, as if he was embarrassed for taking someone else’s feelings into account. He was wearing the other blue pair of Robbie’s pajamas, the ones just a shade darker because they were a little older and had once been a royal blue.

“Won’t you get into trouble?”

“The mustache is a suggestion of rank, not a requirement. I’ll just say that you like me better with it gone.” He smirked. “You have a reputation as a capricious soul intent on getting his way.”

“I’m a right git.” It was a disappointing realization.

“You are.” Blushing, James set aside his book, and met his eyes. “Come to bed, Robbie Lewis.”

+++

He’d been gone no more than a few minutes, and this early in the morning he’d only encountered a few hardy souls at the market. He balanced the takeaway coffees in their cardboard tray in one hand, the shopping bags rustling in the other as he let himself back into the flat. He paused, listening. James didn’t seem to be up yet.

Just as well, he supposed. It hadn’t been a night either of them would want to remember. He’d slipped into bed and informed James that he wanted to sleep. Period. He didn’t want to be awakened every hour to see if he was slipping into a coma, didn’t want to be kissed goodnight, didn’t want anything at all. He didn’t want to hurt James by not being the man he expected or cared for.

Because James—this James—cared for a monster.

All right, then, maybe not a monster. But certainly not recognizable. Robert Lewis—in this dark, grey place— was no good. While Robbie Lewis, for the most part, was a good, decent man. He wasn’t going to allow this James Hathaway to fall for him, not while his James Hathaway was in the clutches of that no good Robert Lewis. He had to get back to his James.

And that meant Robert Lewis had to find his way back home.

“You brought coffee.” James was dressed for work, standing in the hall, blocking the doorway to the kitchen.

Robbie hefted the bags. Without the mustache, it almost could be his James standing there: the fondness in the man’s expression—his James looked like that. His James always wore that same slight smile as if he was just pleased to be in Robbie’s presence. “Needed a few things.” He swallowed. He’d bought pastries, the sort that his James would like, but he didn’t know—“Pastries.”

“Chocolate croissants. Yes, I like those too.” James took the bag from him with a resigned sigh. “In your world, where did they find the Zelinsky girl?”

_Christ, why did it have to be that case?_ “Cistern on the farm.” He watched James pause, close his eyes briefly, much like his James did, and he asked the question that had been at the back of his mind for years whenever James did that. “Just now, you closed your eyes. Is that—are you praying?”

“It’s a reflex.” He bit into his croissant. His expression became hard. “Robert doesn’t approve.”

“And you let him, you let this bloke tell you what to think and what to do? Bloody hell, man, show a little backbone. You don’t have to be who he wants.”

James huffed a laugh, finishing his croissant, and shaking his head. “’If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.’”

Robbie put the shopping away, feeling James’s eyes on him every second, evaluating and marveling. _Didn’t Robert do a bloody thing? Like Mr. Hyde had been here, that’s what it was._ He felt ill thinking of his James with Robert, wondering what he was having to do, wondering what had been done to him. “Would Robert hurt the James in my world?”

James pressed a hand to Robbie’s shoulder. “Are you still convinced that you’re in the wrong place? That you are in a different world? You do realize, don’t you, how that sounds.”

He did. He finished his coffee, trying to think of the job and a little girl who wouldn’t be found alive. “Let’s go to work.”

It was the one thing that he could count on. Work.

+++

“She’s malnourished, traumatized, of course, but she’ll live. How did you know where to look?”

“Just a hunch,” Robbie said. He should feel exhilarated, he supposed. She was alive, after all, but it only underscored the difference here because he could feel its wrongness, like insects crawling over his skin. The little Zelinsky girl should be dead. He didn’t have to say anything to James. Like his own James, this one seemed to know him too well, seemed to understand that the pint after work would not be a completely celebratory one.

“If you’re right,” James said, “and this world is a mirror image of yours, then you plan to return to it, your world.”

“I want to, yeah. It’s daft, I know.”

“Maybe it is daft. But you knew where she was. Walked right up to the cistern. You were surprised to find her alive. If you had arranged for her disappearance, you would have killed her and arranged for her to be found afterwards.” He held up his hand, stopping Robbie’s shocked protest. “Because she was found alive. I believe you.” He sipped his beer, setting the glass down carefully. “I’ve seen you disimilate, but you were not acting. You were shocked and relieved.”

Robbie’s mouth turned down. “In my world, you found her. Dead.”

James cocked his head. “You were protecting me? Here? You thought she’d be found dead?”

He didn’t think it was protection as much as what came after—that sorry business at Crevecouer Hall. Going from one awful thing to the next. Robbie reckoned that his timeline—he couldn’t think of a better term—was a few months ahead of this one. He shrugged. He didn’t want to get used to being here, but he could function. He just couldn’t stand the thought of Robert Lewis in his world. Not with his James.

James reached out and covered his hand with his own, squeezing it before pulling back. “We’ll find a way.”

+++

“James, give him room.” Laura’s voice was muffled, faint. “Are the paramedics here yet, Gurdip?”

“Outside the building. Lucky we have that AED—he’d be dead otherwise.”

“Robbie.” He felt James saying his name, the puffs of the ‘b’ against his cheek. “Robbie.”

He struggled to open his eyes. Could barely move. The sunlight in his office—dammit, he was on the floor and things attached to his chest—and James was hovering over him, his face inches away.

His beautiful un-mustached face. His lovely golden hair haloed against the bright light streaming through the window.

Robbie reached up, his hand unerringly going to the back of James’s neck and pulling him close, closer, finally kissing him with a sigh, lips and tongue melting into a molten glow.

His James.

+++

“You knew right away that Robert,” they’d taken to calling his evil twin ‘Robert’ in conversation, “wasn’t me.”

“It’s much harder for an uncivilized brute to function in polite society.” James put his hands in his pockets, leaning against the counter in Robbie’s kitchen. He quirked a smile. “You demanded that I grow a mustache the minute you set eyes on me. It was somewhat telling.” He cocked his head, enjoying Robbie’s discomfort. “But the clincher was when you demanded that Laura and I join you in bed. You were most insistent.”

“Christ,” he muttered.

“Fortunately there were no witnesses except Laura and myself. She won’t mention it to Franco, of course, though she did suggest that you and I discuss the matter.”

Robbie felt the heat rise along his neck. He’d kissed James. Well, he’d been damn glad to see him—clean shaven and blond and oh, he’d carry the memory of that kiss for years because he’d felt it right down to his toes. ‘Course that might have been the residual effects of having his heart restarted.

His James, his brilliant James in both worlds, had figured out that the shock was what had done it. They weren’t sure what ‘it’ was exactly. James Hathaway in the other world called it a ‘portal’ and James Hathaway in this world called it a ‘rip.’ His James, in this world, suggested—at length—that the nomenclature was important. By calling it a portal, the other James had implied that it could be used to get back and forth, as if the other James could step through it. His James, on the other hand, wanted it to be a rip because by setting things to rights on this side, it might be mended and no one, least of all the other James, could make their way to this Oxford.

His Oxford. With all its bicycles and colorful characters. The golden stone of the Radcliffe Camera with its blue dome and the graceful spires of Magdalen College tickling the sky. He was home. He stared at his James, who wore a slight smile and whose blond hair gleamed like a halo against the sunlight coming from the windows. There was no mustache on that lip, and he was suddenly very aware that he was staring at James’s mouth, at his lips, and that both of them were grinning at each other.

James—his James—had kissed him back. Enthusiastically.

“Come here, you,” he said, taking a step toward his James.

“With pleasure,” said his James, with a satisfied smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Hathaway quotes C.S. Lewis, _Mere Christianity_


End file.
